


Is The Pitfall

by Miandraden1



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: BTW this is a work in progress, Excuse me if there are canon inconsistencies, F/M, Force Yadda Yadda, I dont know I didn't plan anything, I may have gotten carried away with Satine, I really have other fics I should be writing, My Boy Xani who I don't know at all really, Obi-Wan's Infinite Sadness, Proof-reading, Rating May Change, Second hand knowledge be my biggest knowledge, Sorry Not Sorry, That's Obi-Wan's life, This just kind of blipped up around a single idea, Unifying Force, Whump, Xanatos - Freeform, cosmic force, no beta we die like men, to be clear, what is that?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miandraden1/pseuds/Miandraden1
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi lives to hold up a hesitating finger, never quite sure where and when to put it down and say, "this!""This is what I dread."
Relationships: Bant Eerin & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Kenobi-centric, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Everyone, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Obi-Wan Kenobi's Mother, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Owen Kenobi - Relationship, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, The Kenobi Family, This is about Obi-Wan Kenobi if you hadn't noticed
Comments: 41
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/gifts).



> Hello! I know I have a Connor fic I should be writing, but I really wanted to write this and if I ignore the muse, what will happen? Huh?
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> And Blue, I'm gifting this to you because your Desert Storm series is absolutely marvelous, and it really makes one sink deep into the lore. For this, I thank you, Master.

Destiny is tricky. The future is always in motion, and yet, some things will always and have always been true.

Here is a truth: Obi-Wan Kenobi belongs to the light.

I want you to imagine him from the first moment of his existence, or rather, perhaps, the first moment of his expression. Tight fists drawn against his chest, shinning bloody, little legs barely kicking, and drawn-out mewls of discomfort.

This baby doesn’t scream, nor cry, much, regardless of his obvious dissatisfaction. The Kenobi household is very pleased- they coo at the child. It is a bit of a contest, even, to wipe that sweet scowl away. The father cheekily comments that there is no doubt, now, about who is the grumpiest member of the family. A brother, barely old enough to understand, looks at the squirming little arrival in awe, asking questions whenever he feels his parents are less exhausted. The mother smiles down at her baby, her son, with wholehearted contentment.

Nobody pays any mind to a small section at the bottom of the bloodwork register of the hospital, a small square that declares: midichlorian count.

It is months later, after two days of uncharacteristic and persistent wails, with two Jedi Searchers on their doorstep, that they realize their mistake.

This baby, they say, is strong is the Cosmic Force. This child, they say, can sense the connections to the universe. This boy, they say, may even be able to sense the paths of the future. They don’t want to say all these things, they want to only share that Obi-Wan Kenobi is Force Sensitive, and that he’ll have a better life with those that can teach him. Anything else they say after, they say under pressure, from the nervous questions of parents that want to understand. And it is only these things that they don’t want to say that convince the Kenobi parents.

Because Obi-Wan began screaming in earnest moments before they opened the door to his grim-faced destiny. Because he cried inconsolably as they heard the news that threatened to change everything, long wet trails in that small face and grief-filled whimpers. Because he calmed only when the young Knight pressed gentle fingers to his forehead.

“He knew!” The mother whispers shakily, after they had distanced themselves in the bedroom to discuss the situation, clutching at the father’s arm. “He was scared and upset, and I couldn’t do anything!”

Her husband hushes her, thumb on her lips. “We couldn’t know. We just- we _can’t_.”

She jerks. “How do we raise him then? How can we comfort him when we don’t even know what he’s- seeing?”

His grip goes slack, his eyebrows come together, and he can only sit there. There’s only their breathing. The silence of their baby, a sudden rarity, yet so very present beyond that door.

They can’t.

They let go that night because if they don’t do it then, they never will.

Stewjon is pleasantly cool, with great plains of soft bluegrass and a light violet sky, and at night the pink shine of interstellar clouds sweep the black nothing. It is beautiful, and it is simple. It is a planet of few predators and has a rich reserve of soil fruits, resting inches under the surface, sweet, juicy, and warm. This planet doesn’t encourage great technological advancement or economical competition, and it gives next to no opportunity for abuse. The people here are gentle and trusting, and they are not made for conflict. There is one concern and one concern only:

Be happy, have love.

Mama and Papa Kenobi, little Owen Kenobi notices as he creeps into the living room, seem sad as they hug each other. He can see them through the open door, and he cannot hear his little brother no more. Their house is small, and it stands in the middle of one particularly healthy expansive grassland. He runs to hug their legs, and as they all stand outside, everything feels cold and desolate. At least, they think, he’ll be well cared for.

They are, unknowingly, experiencing a merciful taste of their son’s fate.

The Kenobi household goes to sleep that night, and they grieve, and they miss. Eventually, they forget.

Obi-Wan arrives at the Temple, under the pressing- “surprisingly necessary”, the Knight comments to his companion as the immense doors open. “This youngling is a remarkably nervous one.”- peace of the Force-sensitive holding him. The babe lets out a happy little sound, the first to the Jedis’ memory, leg kicking and fist reaching up excitedly.

Yes, little one, you’ve arrived home.

The Creche Master takes the little bundle lovingly. “You’re in good hands now.” He whispers down at the small creature with tiny red wisps of hair. “We’ll take care of you.”

He sets the little one down is a warm bed, in the room for infant humans and near humans, turns around and leaves. The wiggling one whimpers.

He senses the tale. Do you know the tale? You must, you should. Even Master Yoda hobbles in that day. He knows its important, even if he can’t quite understand how, but the Force whispers. He hasn’t (quite yet) forgotten how to listen. He hits a Creche Knight’s ankle, and he is picked up. He looks down upon the youngling and marks the name in his mind. Obi-Wan Kenobi.

For a few years after, it is all about this baby who has nightmares. That whimpers in his sleep, and cries upon waking up- this baby that makes the whole creche upset. This baby who only ever seems at peace when the calm is forced upon him. Yoda does not know what this baby senses, if his are visions or vague sensations, for it is not anything about the here and now. He visits one night to lay a hand on the toddler's forehead and whispers into the Unifying Force. Not yet, the ancient creature of the Force pleads. This youngling cannot understand you, cannot yet act in consequence nor meditate on the infinite knowledge of the universe. Not yet, for you only make him suffer. This intent seeps into the youngling's fragile shields. 

When next Master Yoda hears talk of the young boy, it is all complaints about his temper and less than average coursework. He goes to inspect the boy with his eyes and his senses. The boy seems very irritable, very sensitive, and has difficulty releasing his emotions into the Force. But, Yoda senses with his ears ticking up, he isn’t a meanspirited child.

Its something between dread and exasperation, that resides in the little one’s chest, but nothing so definable and sharp as fear. Yoda does not worry about what this boy can be, rather he worries over what the child may not be allowed to be.

The child, for his part, is trying. Long nights he studies and he ignores willfully any and all distractions when in class. Still, this attention does not help him, for he catches an idea and examines it in so many long and diminutive and rough and overarching aspects that the next one eludes him. It is difficult, as much as he practices constantly, to hold himself in a spar. Before battle begins, he can almost already see his own failure. Obi-Wan Kenobi peeks at his sense of the unreachable horizon, sometimes willingly and sometimes accidentally, and shudders. Some incomprehensible loneliness threatens him, and not even compassionate Bant can quite say she understands, big eyes blinking at him slowly, uncoordinated. (He's used to it. She is too good a friend for him to ever be bothered by the independent eyes of her species.) He senses not the people of the Temple like she does, he explains, as she made the comparison to the many stars in the sky, all shining alone and together (she meant the holoimages of the planetarium, Coruscant was too loud with light to ever allow the night sky to shine.) “It’s like one great current, or a wave,” he said, and the only image they had of anything like _that_ was in The Room of a Thousand Fountains, aside from the Holonet. “Water has molecules and atoms, but I don’t quite see those. I see ripples and it’s one entity. Sometimes it’s more like a spiderweb, and knights are the points of connection.” And like one anticipates the motion of water on a beach, this is how the future feels, barely a touch away from certainty. “And sometimes…” he trails off, and then Bant’s webbed fingers are wrapping around his. “Sometimes- I feel as if the beach is going dry, and I’ll be the only one left to see it. Me and endless sand."

So he and Bant and Garen and Reeft, they make their tight little group and their cheerful auras mingle to forget the fears of the world, moments at a time.

But he always remembers again. The older he grows, the surer he is it’s the warning that he’ll be sent away. Never to be amidst the presences of the Jedi Temple. Bruck Chun makes a compelling case for his failure. The white-haired boy didn’t have to make it so _obvious_ though. He didn’t have to be so mean. So maybe, Obi-Wan doesn’t remember who gave the first punch.

What he knows is that Master Yoda comes to him. The image of small green creature against the white of the Healer’s Wards makes his face hot with shame. Everything goes hot really, in all the wrong ways. He can feel the blood burn on his scrapes and his split cheek. He can feel his muscles hurt, his arms twitchy as he leans against them, his legs aching where they hang off the cot, back stiff against any movement. Practice catching up to him. He pushes himself down, and if his legs _bong_ as they catch him, well, he shouldn’t need the Force for this. He bows, and he doesn’t quite take his eyes off the floor.

“Greetings, Master Yoda.”

Master Yoda hobbles a little closer and a pressure that would have been grating, if not for his Initiate robes, takes ahold of his shoulder. For all the venerable master had more claws than palm, his touch had always been comforting.

“Greetings, young one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Know this, I do. Passed, it now has. An opportunity, I bring. Mindful of the future, you need be, now.” And then he was told of the tournament.

For the benefit of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

For all the horizon extended into a pitfall, Obi-Wan could not quite curve his own excitement. He fought to keep his steps calm the day he headed to the salle. He almost grabbed his training lightsaber, if only so that he could stop clenching and unclenching dry fingers against clammy palms, for all the obvious impatience it would display. And somehow, Bruck’s glare didn’t burn so much as focus him. The same could even be said about the gazes of all the masters that stood in expectation, especially when he recognized the long mane of Master Jinn. A behemoth of a man, arms crossed, standing taller than his peers (some of species supposedly bigger than humans) with eyes already unimpressed. His composition spoke of gentleness though, and, regardless of whether it hadn’t, Obi-Wan would still have wanted him to be his master. 

When he _did_ pick his lightsaber, the world rushed to him. For all the horizon was still there, now much closer was a cliff, tops of trees peeking over in a whisper of possibility. Obi-Wan’s knuckles strained white over the weapon and he straightened, muscles tense, feet very much planted, in realization. He could win this one.

At the very least, he wasn’t going to _just lose_.

Initiate Kenobi met Initiate Chun’s gaze straight on, bowed, and gave it his all.

Later, he thinks he should have known better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perspective is interesting. 
> 
> In life.
> 
> In writing. 
> 
> For me while writing this chapter. 
> 
> Timing too. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

His hair is wet, and it sticks to his forehead, to his neck. It tickles in all the wrong ways. It makes him damp, for all that he shook the towel furiously against his head and being damp makes him cold. And he is cold, and he is alone, sitting in a bench of white tile with his fingers and feet planted on white tile, surrounded by humid air in a place of carefully controlled ambient temperature. He is sitting there in the dressing room, with a wry idea that he doesn’t know why he expected anything different than this feeling, and he doesn’t know what to do with the tea in the plastic glass resting on the table of white tile. It isn’t steaming anymore. There is a lot of white tile. He keeps looking at this one white square right in front of him.

But cheers, right? He won. Yay.

Its not like he _didn’t_ know he was going to leave. The Force has been brutally honest.

He ends up drinking the lukewarm tea. Master Jinn made it for him, and it feels wrong to turn this away. This is what winning got him, after all, a face to face acknowledgment that no, he isn’t fit to be a Jedi, thank you for your efforts. If he chucks the glass into the garbage can with extra force, well.

Leaving that room, though, is strange. It feels like stepping back out into reality. But then the warm lights of the Temple’s hallways are as golden as ever, as if even they were echoing the sense of victory that should-be, that for a moment _was_. His friends are lingering outside, and he can almost see their shuffling in those smiles. They heard he won, undoubtedly, but they knew him too well. Reeft is standing behind Garen, his hairless head not nearly as subtle as he desired it to be. Using the most conspicuous person he knows to hide, though, that’s smarts and experience at its finest. Proved, again, when Garen says “You did it, Obi-Wan!”, with the question all over his face even as he tries to look excited. Bant just rests her pink hands on his arm.

It is gazing at those webbed fingers that he says, “Master Jinn… isn’t taking me as his padawan.”

And then its their struggle between being righteously angry on his behalf and, well, _not_. Nobody there is meant to do that. Its three days of their subtle (not) campaigning to find him a master that won’t care that he wasn’t chosen _even though he won_. If his fate wasn’t sealed, it was now, and at least the Temple was not hiding it from him. His bunk greets him with a datapad detailing his AgriCorps assignment. Bandomeer.

There is a long hug with Bant. Compassionate Bant Eerin- there is no way she won’t be chosen as a padawan.

He finds out Master Jinn will just happen to share transport with him. He isn’t sure if he should approach the man, but the master makes the choice for him and turns away the moment he is able to do so. Well.

Now here is the thing, and I want you to really focus on the complete and utter astonishment that hits Obi-Wan after they make Hyperspace. Now, the sensation of a net just under the skin of his stomach being yanked back against his column and the center of his teeth vibrating, that was expected, if startling. He had been told the first jump is always uncomfortable, and he had settled himself solidly against the wall of his (temporary) bunk in preparation. After that, he had spent a while observing the accommodations, and, admittedly, making faces. The communal quarters of the Dragon Clan were not the tidiest place, and he would never have claimed to be the tidiest member (that would be Reeft). But the care of their interspecies living had always been loving, and for all that it could get messy, it was never filthy. This place, smaller, and yet it was…

Well, he was going to be a farmer, perhaps he should get used to dirt.

He tried to sleep- he failed. So he tried to explore, and he angered the wrong people, for which Master Jinn had to save him, unhappily. They didn’t speak. So he went back to his room. And he remembered the horizon, the deep-seated wrongness resting just under it for as long as he could remember, and he closed his eyes eagerly. At least in this, he thought, he could find something new.

It took him a while, in reaching, for him to let go of his expectations and just _see_. And what greets him is this sense of scorching bone-deep… _lessness_. He blinks, shoulders hunched, frowning, glancing around a little suspiciously. His fingers tap against his knee nervously.

What could be less than _this_?

He has been deemed unworthy of the Temple and of Knighthood. He is in a ship full of unsavory characters- apart from the Master that seems to dislike his mere presence. His room is not at all appealing. Even Bandomeer, that he tried so hard to avoid, would be filled with a communal purpose chased by many Temple-raised Force-sensitives. As much as he dismissed the words as empty comfort, the AgriCorps were, in fact, a form of noble service. The journey should be the lowest point of it all.

Mechanical sounds reverberated against the hull of the old ship, images of how beat-up the transport looked from the outside assaulted his eyelids, and his spine went rigid.

Dear Force, was he going to _die_?

This pre-teen is nowhere near relaxed until they leave Hyperspace, which is many days of being alarmed by strange sounds coming off the walls and fitful sleep. As soon as they are on Realspace (and he stops feeling something pressing against the base of his throat and as if his eyes are being pulled from his skull and as if his teeth are buzzing) he hurries to the closest viewport to look upon his new home. He pressed his cheek and his palms against the chilly glass. What greets him is a planet split down the middle, one side sea-blue and the other a rocky grey-green. In which the grey is the first word for a reason.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know why he expected the planet to be green when it made so much more sense for it to rather need more green. Maybe he can still expect that… solitude.

Once their feet touch fertile, if empty, land, Qui-Gon Jinn goes exactly opposite to where Obi-Wan is directed. The young Kenobi can only look down and dig his foot, point down, into the ground, and snap it up. The soil gives way, flies up and falls, anticlimactically. Obi-Wan imagines his future digging his hands down into this, again and again, and again, and it doesn’t feel right.

That, maybe, has little to do with the Force, but he was Force-sensitive, for all that he would never be a Jedi. Hunches and instincts are never just hunches and instincts.

Which is what makes him reach just a little further when all those logos of a hollow semi-circles keep showing up. Straight forward, the lady said, when you reach the Agricultural Corps station you’ll know. What he saw was open land, along with many metal storage houses. If he breaks into one of the warehouses, he’ll admit to being a little appalled of himself, but there was something-

A weird heaviness and resonance coming off these, so much louder off _this_ one…

So he breaks in, pushing the window aside rather than actually breaking it because he’s a reject, not a savage. He Forces one of the boxes open and lays his hand on the-

His chest pressed down, and Obi-Wan gasped, almost unable to breathe. His eyes burned, and his knees wobbled. He was no Quinlan Vos, but something seriously wrong had happened around this material.

The pre-teen was still blinking furiously, seated on the floor, when he realized the light had turned on. And on an elevated platform, was a man.

“Well, this was not meant for _you_.” The dignified figure said.

Obi-Wan frowned up at the other human. “This… was _meant_ for someone?”

“The _oh so illustrious_ Master you seem to have come with. Replacement is so sweet, really. Especially by one like you- you’ll never make it as Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan.”

Obi-Wan’s chest constricted at that, but he pushed it aside quickly. There wasn’t any point correcting this man. This is when he recognized the mark, red and small on the man’s cheek, as the semi-circle present in all the cargo. “This- who are you? Did you do- this? What have you _done_?” He demanded, resentful at his youthfulness of voice.

The smile the man gave was smug, fitting with the charming face, and his posture brightened with humor. “ _Me_? _You_ are the one trespassing here- _thieving_.”

“I’m not! There’s something _wrong_ -!”

“Not to worry.” The man declared, holding palms up. Obi-Wan felt a chill creep up in the Force. “I accept compensation by work.”

The world gave under Obi-Wan’s feet. Darkness- a whack on the shoulder, against something cold and firm, a sharp pain on his forehead, and his ankle crumbled when he reached the floor. He stopped a face-first fall with his arms, and his elbows _yelled_. With all this, it took him a while to notice the sharp sting on his neck, and by then his eyes were already closing.

Water woke him up. He blinked and puffed against the floor, curling in on himself, bare forearms touching thighs, because he couldn’t feel _anything_. The world was unbearably _empty_. _Nothing_. Pain exploded from his chin to the top of his head, and he reeled back, backbone colliding, looking up at a masked being holding a whip. A heavy pressure against his throat. He could feel, he realized (among other things), but he was… _Forceless._

Behind the blind panic, he thought:

_Oh, this is it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C-hello!
> 
> Bad joke, sorry. Please enjoy.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------  
> WhAt jOKe WaS I TRynG to MAke thErE?! I have such strange humor I don't even understand myself.

Hitting the dark. Trak! Something, a pebble, maybe, bouncing off his shoulder. Trak! His hands chaffed and clammy, half his fingers let go but he holds on. Trak! His lungs are stiff- too cold air. Trak! His feet slipped, he caught himself on his knees and kept hitting. Trak! Everything was chilled, except his arms, his shoulders, and his back. As if someone was holding live training lightsabers against his muscles. Trak! Trak! Trak! Trak!

This is what the days were like, and he doesn’t know for how many days. He has a friend- of a sort- when he’s taken out of the deep nothing with the unending trak!, and with him, he learns more of his captor.

It is something to do, something to feel useful- something that isn’t accepting the echo of each trak!, each growing fainter and fainter until he is alone with the next one. And the next one. And the next one. And-

And Qui-Gon finds him. Qui-Gon finds him, and for that, he’s trapped. They’re both trapped and there’s no time.

His life seems so small, suddenly. He has done so little. Been able to do so little. Will do so little, even if he survives this- he is meant to replant a planet that may soon be no more. And if he can be a Jedi in _this_ -

It’ll all mean something.

It burns in his chest, it sharpens his senses almost to lunacy, and he can hear everything. His own breathing, his heart pounding, the numbness of his fingers, the metallic taste on his inner cheeks. He takes ahold of the collar, presses himself determinately against the wall, and tells Master Qui-Gon Jinn to blow him up.

Somehow, after it is all said and done, he’s alive. The world seems too solid to be real, and the universe impossibly vast. He’s a strange creature in a glass ball, and the light filters in to create all this. Then Qui-Gon puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, “I’ll take you as my padawan learner.”

-

He comes back to the Temple, and Qui-Gon doesn’t put hands on shoulders anymore. He’s already ten paces past him before Obi-Wan gathers his wits about him and follows. Everything is a blur but Qui-Gon’s back.

They end up on the Council Room, and reality makes sense again when he meets Master Yoda’s eyes.

He’s home.

-

Bant almost squeezes his lungs out. And life continues.

The Horizon keeps the same threat, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do with that. Day in and day out he’s convinced he already knows what complete loneliness is- he was cut off from the Force.

He consults his Master, now that he has one.

Qui-Gon listens to his concerns, with no interruptions and no reactions, face impassive, and Obi-Wan can’t tell you if the default is kind or indifferent. He listens, as the barely-padawan recounts his dread, his lack of understanding, the looming and distant, and yet so constant, certainty that follows him. His belief that he can’t quite imagine what it could be warning against, especially considering his previous assumptions. “I won’t deny your strength in the Cosmic Force, Obi-Wan,” his master says. “And it does you credit, but no favors. You worry too much over a future you can’t define, and, especially for your age, ignore alarmingly the present moment. You confuse your fears for your senses, and as such, you can’t let them go into the Force.” To conclude, Qui-Gon was already turning away, tall and dismissive. “Be mindful of the Living Force, padawan, and this anxiety will leave you."

Obi-Wan tries. Where before he would occasionally peek, he makes an effort now, every day, to keep his view on the present and not anywhere else. He keeps to the training that Qui-Gon asks of him, meditates with focus on the living beings that surround him (in his master’s quarters, they’re numerous), and visits his friends.

He goes on missions and follows- he quickly learns it isn’t his place to say what his senses warn him away from. His master understands the reality of the now, and Qui-Gon remarks repeatedly, it is over the solid present that they must act.

Things happen- but they must happen, surely, such is the life of a Jedi, and Qui-Gon always saves him.

Even Qui-Gon's _rock_ saves him, when he’s on the verge of losing his mind. There’s a lesson in that too, when his master says he thought it simply a pretty rock. Master Jinn didn’t know what the rock would do, but the Living Force guided his hand regardless, as it does in everything.

If only Obi-Wan can learn to surrender to the Force as his Master does.

Bant questions him about the future, again, sometime later. Perhaps he agrees too easily, he doesn’t know, but it is a relief to yank the tarp away from his senses, if one for a moment, if only to answer a question. He’s relieved as much as he’s… disappointed. The Horizon isn’t such an overt threat anymore, but only because there’s not much of a _horizon_ to speak of. If before the Force had a detailed holo-painting he struggled to comprehend, now he has only a blur with thick words in soft pastel brown. He can’t even read it, but it feels like resignation, greater than a warning, heat-filled and a placid _alone_. “Well?” Bant asks with big grey pupils on him. “Do you feel better?”

He smiles just enough for her to see his dimples. “Much better.”

She brightens and it’s the greatest thing.

-

Melida/Daan is his first real attempt to seize the present.

It is not, perhaps, the first time he feels death. He’s felt death before, with and without the Force. Less dramatically, he’s felt the end of some plants in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Later, he stumbled once, over a body, in the deep darkness of (Trak! Trak! Trak!) the Bandomeer mines. He’s helped Qui-Gon deal with pirates. Death happens, and a Jedi must know to feel it, and let it go. Basking in the life, still so very bright and present, that surrounds one- it helps.

Melida/Daan is… different.

Centuries of death, of hostility, of misery and fear and anger, its essence thick even from space. When they touched down upon it, the pressure built on the sides of his head and scratched his soul raw, he stood there, and his heart bled. Maybe it wasn’t the same for Qui-Gon- maybe he knew only the current strife. Shame escapes Obi-Wan, as he senses the charged air of _history,_ as he breathes it in and tastes that despair. It threatens to choke him.

When he meets the Young- well, maybe it is that he too is young, and they all stand there as equals, all relevant. More likely, its that they promise an end. They hold a mission and a vision of peace even if they must crawl through the blood of their families. Perhaps it is that he believes in them when the Young selflessly struggle to find and save Master Tahl. Or… in part, it must be Cerasi, holding his gaze with absolute conviction.

He plants his feet and tells Qui-Gon he’s not leaving.

Qui-Gon doesn’t make it complicated.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, thereafter, learns of war.

He learns what it is like to hold on to a cause when you can only see death.

He learns what it is to fall to his knees, trying to keep someone alive, weak on the Force, and fail. The life out against his terrible effort.

He learns to make choices- terrible choices- knowing that people will die.

He resents Cerasi, sometimes, for the trust she puts in him. Nobody had ever trusted him so much, and maybe they shouldn’t.

He makes friends and loses them like dominoes.

It’s senseless.

And then it isn’t.

They succeeded. Cerasi smiles, a tired slightly bitter thing, and he leans against her shoulder. She leans back.

They make a little election- would you look at that? Democracy. Nield is made governor.

And then- well, it was about _history_. It confused him, how quickly violence sprouted again. They must stop it- _this_ can’t be what makes everything fall.

It’s with her dead weight on his lap, the red, vibrant as her hair, against snow-like skin, falling from her lips, her glassy green gaze somewhere far away, that he realizes. Everything can fall apart just like that.

-

Obi-Wan can’t defend his position when Qui-Gon comes back.

He can’t say it was- wrong, but…

He doesn’t understand.

Sweet Force, there is so much he doesn’t _understand_.

-

He tries to understand. He tries to explain it. "We had a connection that I can't explain. It wasn't the result of time, of hours spent together. It wasn't the result of secrets or confidences... It was something else."

"You loved her." Bant answers.

And if that isn’t loneliness, to have your first love taken away before you realize it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't and DON'T take credit for the last two dialogue lines, those belong to Disney now, and appear in Jedi Apprentice: The Captive Temple.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took long incoming! Honestly, I thought I was losing emotional momentum with this story. I wrote a lot of this half-asleep- which is, naturally, when inspiration strikes. Obi-Wan deserves that from me. 
> 
> A lot of this I would say is... unreliable third-person narrator. BTW.

When he is taken back to the Temple, he realizes he isn’t actually _taken back_.

He knew he was renouncing to his life as a Jedi, to his only dream, the moment he stepped back from the line Master Qui-Gon had drawn. Now he had it back. Yet it had never occurred to him that he was specifically renouncing Qui-Gon Jinn.

Now, back home, a home that feels liquid with how many times it slips through his fingers only to crash back into his knees, flooding like a wave, he realizes. He realizes how ignorant he was, how naïve, in taking such a decision to stay. He realizes how little he knew. He didn’t even stop the war. Cerasi was dead. He had meant nothing.

He apologizes. Master Windu looks down at him with a grimace and a frown far sharper and more personal than any he has ever witnessed. The Master calls him out on the meaningless of the apology, now that all was done, when he should have _known better._ He was not some initiate anymore. Perhaps he never deserved a padawanship.

He was as arrogant as Qui-Gon first feared him to be, thinking that he knew better than his Master and that he knew what the Force asked of him. As if he had ever been skilled at reading its will. As if all he felt wasn’t a pointless dread.

Shame filled Obi-Wan’s pores, as he thought of what he was becoming: a creature consumed by dark feeling. He watched Qui-Gon lean down in friendly conversation with Bant. His dark tendencies, not the least of was jealousy.

The idea that, even back at the Temple and away from Melida/Daan, he was as far away from Knighthood as he was that first moment setting foot on Bandomeer haunted him. Bant was kind, far too considered when she gave great merit for a master, by avoiding Master Jinn and seeking to accompany _him,_ a failed creche-mate she should forget. And here Obi-Wan repaid her being unable to look at her without anguish consuming him.

He boiled. What a selfish being he was.

He was everything a Jedi was not supposed to be.

Master Yoda is not dishonest about Obi-Wan’s lack of wisdom, but he was so kind. This is another person whose gaze he cannot meet.

Things don’t get any better any quicker. The chaos of his mind and mad scramble of his heart take physical form. He wakes up to a hit on his hears- loud. He was awoken by cold water on his psyche, sudden- fear and pain and absence, and _such a familiar fire_. The fire of dreams. The Temple has been bombed, he is told. There is a familiar ice on his veins- Xanatos, he remembers, and his bones drum with certainty.

And if nothing else, Melida/Daan has taught him to think through panic, through aggression, through violence. His head is clear like it hasn’t been in weeks. This, at the very least, he can help defend against. And if this is the last thing he is allowed to do for the Jedi order, that is fine.

Except it isn’t. It isn’t when Bruck Chun, _Bruck Chun_ of all people, stands there as the embodiment of everything that has always been wrong with Obi-Wan Kenobi. It isn’t fine when Bant’s life hangs on the line, because how can he save her when lately all he has done is fail her? It isn’t fine when he clashed sabers against Bruck, this boy he has defeated once, but not like this, never like this, never with such terrible purpose as this. He has no murderous intent, Obi-Wan, but the finality pressing on the sides of his head terrifies him. When he over-reaches, distracted and miscalculating, and he can see Bruck bring down the saber on him, ready to kill him, Obi-Wan isn’t ready to die. The Force bursts outwards. And this duel that has occurred on the sacred grounds of the Room of a Thousand Fountains ends with Bruck stumbling. Pale, the whites of his eyes round around his blown pupils, obvious under the snow hair, the terror as his foot slips palpable even without the Force screaming it into Obi-Wan’s ears. Bruck Chun falls, a garden high against all the others, disappearing even as Obi-Wan scrambles towards the edge, and all he can see is the pale shape against dark green, so small.

In the Force, Bruck has disappeared.

Dark red blooms a halo around his head.

Obi-Wan blinks. He has spoken to Bruck so many times, the memory of the child that wouldn’t leave him alone as intrinsic to the Temple as the high vaulted hallways.

He is a _murderer._

He is disoriented when Qui-Gon comes for him. He is sitting in a bed. All he sees is Bruck at the gardens. Melida/Daan hadn’t been without death by his hand, but this is… different.

Telos, the Master says. Xanatos.

They go.

It’s easy to sense a dying planet, so it doesn’t take them long to realize there is something wrong with the population’s cheery disposition. Obi-Wan may have been tempted to say there was something wrong with it regardless, after everything, but it’s the smile of these people he clings to. Their planet is ruins, and perhaps they are unaware of it, but that so close to the problem they can joke and tease inspires him. The unrelenting optimism of life itself. It is a thought that will never quite leave him.

He is still aching, and it grounds him. At every which way in which there is a hint of proof, if Master Jinn doesn’t find it, he does. Soon enough, it is a compelling case. Armed with a truth out in the open, they descend upon Xanatos.

The encounter is as confusing as some dreams. The tension that rises with history comes thick into the air, leaving him the perfect outsider. Blades are brought out, and Obi-Wan is but the small piece of a deadly cog. At some point, he is offered a very different sort of apprenticeship. And the cold that grips him, that sureness of _something_ the Force _uselessly_ grants him, has him looking in horror into Xanatos’ eyes as the man willingly falls. He understood what was happening before Qui-Gon Jinn, but he less than able to stand the sight of a man dissolving in acid. Still, the details take root into his mind in a way that will not leave him either.

Qui-Gon takes him back. He isn’t sure why. His master is not exactly forthcoming with his reasoning.

They go on missions. Life continues (for them, that is). Obi-Wan serves with a tightness on his heart. Meaningless against duty, but something akin to high mud against each step of functionality. It costs them far too much, and he isn’t worthy any of it.

He gets captured, unable to save himself nor Siri, derailing a mission that should have been simple.

Qui-Gon is taken, and Obi-Wan chafes against his own incapability. He could not find his master, nor protect him, and not becoming a knight means little next to the fact that the training bond in his mind may snap any day now. His desperate fear that his master may die holds him tightly through a wild chase through the galaxy. In those moments, he feels terribly insignificant against Siri’s boisterousness and Master Gallia’s steadiness. But they save Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon is gentle and compassionate, but not expressive, not with Obi-Wan Kenobi. In the boy’s mind he’ll forever have the image of Qui-Gon watering plants by a window in their shared Master/Padawan apartment, as Master Tahl hands him tea. The feel of his cold hands as they wrap around the steaming mug, Master Tahl’s hand a gentle pressure on his shoulder that murmurs reassurance. A sharpness in his chest soothed away. The fond look Qui-Gon throws over his shoulder, but not at him. Seldom quite at him.

Then the worst of his sins. He commits a stupid mistake. Mistake after mistake, it hadn’t brought about serious enough consequences, but the urgency of the moment tells him he condemned much more than just himself. Broken legged, assaulted by pain, and rescued by Qui-Gon, dread punches Obi-Wan’s chest. It leaves him breathless.

He is not surprised when Master Tahl dies. Grief rises like a tide, and Obi-Wan cannot distinguish its source. He daren’t think, however, that his pain can compare to his Master’s.

He is surprised when the broken presence is suddenly blocked through the bond. When despairing eyes glance past him, Obi-Wan already knows he won’t be enough. As Qui-Gon strides with purpose, fast and determined in a way that cares not for Obi-Wan behind him, the boy is already getting a comm-link out. He can’t keep up, but he can plead to his betters: Master Windu answers the call.

Qui-Gon does not fall, and Obi-Wan is too boneless with relief to realize nothing is yet fixed.

Those are difficult weeks, difficult months, in which Obi-Wan finds himself in a back and forth between resentment and intense self-reproach. Qui-Gon barely seems to perceive him. Prods into the Force go unanswered. Obi-Wan has flashes of anger that he squashes viciously for the expressions of egoism they are. Sometimes he lies awake at night, planning, searching for the right words, the right combination at breakfast, a joke, a plant, anything to make his master smile. Nothing works. He is powerless. An impatient little man that does not give his master space. A careless teenager that is not there for his master nearly enough. He is always one of these.

And it is his fault.

He did this to Master Tahl. He did this to Qui-Gon. He bites into his pillow and promises to never forget.

He does not want to burden Bant. She has lost her Master now- for all he can’t help Qui-Gon, he hasn’t experienced that. She always looks at her best when helping others, though, and that is just an excuse for asking the question only she can answer. She- who had become Tahl’s padawan. She, who has had to suffer his silent jealousy. She, who knew his failings as a Jedi the moment she recognized what he felt for Cerasi as love. She, to whom he has confided so much for such a long time. She, who was there when he pushed Bruck into his death. She, who had never lied to him about anything.

“Bant,” he says, “am I…?”

“…what? What is it, Obi-Wan?”

“Nothing. It’s not important. Do you- are you-?... I’m here if...”

“I know.” She smiles gently. “You are always here for me.”

He furrows his brows. No, he is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading even after so long without updating!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another chapter so soon? Yup.

The change is announced by:

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

Obi-Wan is elbow deep in plates, detergent, and water. And while he had sensed his master’s towering presence beside him, he is still surprised. He knew he was using the right towel and had observed how Qui-Gon liked his platters accommodated. “Master?”

“You cooked, didn’t you?” The master takes Obi-Wan’s smaller hands and pulls them out of the water. “Go dry yourself. It’s late.”

The teen does as ordered and comes back to a sight now foreign: Qui-Gon Jinn washing the dishes. He hovers, and Qui-Gon sends a dismissive wave through the bond. Obi-Wan spends a while in bed, listening as his master moves around, presumably accommodating things his apprentice didn’t take care of properly. The next morning, he is invited into a meditating matt besides his master’s, sunlight shining in the older man’s pepper hair. Training, it seems, has resumed.

It is in the struggle to learn once again, unwilling to upset the tentative balance that has taken place, that Obi-Wan recognizes two things: He is not confident of his own judgment, and he needs to believe in his own capacity if he is to become a Jedi. Deserved or not, the training he is receiving must lead to something.

The Code becomes reflective on his lips to banish all doubt. He allows himself the most productive of his pastimes and becomes an Archive worm as a result. If there are katas to practice, he practices them feverishly, diligently, sometimes obsessively if his temper acts up. After the need for any of these, he makes a point to meditate, becoming his agemates’ expert on releasing emotion into the Force.

Never again, something disgusted in himself whispers, will he inadvertently kill anybody.

Never again, a piece of his insides seethe, will a mindless mistake of his cause death.

He agrees with his insides wholeheartedly before releasing them into the Force.

He becomes conscious of his body, and his mind wraps itself up in tight layers.

And the dread, so present, he hands to the Cosmic Force. “Take it back,” he pleads, “there’s nothing I can do with this.” It doesn’t work.

From this moment, Obi-Wan releases that dread as it fills him, and that dread forms part of his connection to the Force, flowing through and past him. The Cosmic Force is a part of his nature that never quite gains a foothold as he follows his master’s advice. The Living Force still whispers very lowly, but he trains himself to hear it.

It works. Missions go smoother. His training advances faster. He always has bits and pieces of trivia and information at his side, useful advisors. His nerves don’t get the better of him anymore, and he avoids such debilitating injuries as when he broke his legs, all through calculated deductions. When he does get hurt, he pushes all the discomfort into the Force, refusing to be debilitated when it can have fatal consequences on others.

Only inconvenience? It doesn’t suit his master’s style, who constantly pushes him towards more spontaneous action. “Follow your instincts,” his master says, “mind the Code less.” As if that wasn’t a tested and disproved method for Obi-Wan Kenobi. The teen knows he will never be bright enough in the Force, or talented enough in nothing, to pull off a Jinn.

He grows up, taller, lankier, and a little more comfortable with his safeguards. Pijal happens, and through the irony of Qui-Gon Jinn receiving a vision from the Cosmic Force, his master shows himself more understanding. They both know Obi-Wan is not the apprentice Qui-Gon wanted, but they inevitably come to work well together.

The Living Force? Listening to the warning of the Cosmic Force? Intuition? Code?

The debate becomes rehearsed and a little teasing.

He doesn't know what will come after, is convinced it is not going to be good at all, but for now? Life is good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this seems an abrupt tone change from the last chapter, that's because I wanted to make that period horrible for Obi-Wan: or rather, I feel that was a very bad period of his life. Crawling and surviving that, passing through the hard times, is going to be a relief. A breath of fresh air. Even when one isn't exactly under sunshine and rainbows. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have taken a little more creative freedom than usual: I just love Satine far too much.

“Obs! Wan! Biswaaaan! You’re such a bore!”

“Quinlan!”

“He is!”

“He is my best friend and I’ll have you know he is a great conversationalist!”

“My sweet pink Calamari lady, you are obligated to say that.”

“ _Best friend_ means better friend than _you._ ”

“Agh!” Quinlan leaned back from the table, clutching at the fabric over his chest and letting his cornrows fall back dramatically. “My heart!”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “It’s alright.”

As per the independence of calamari eyes, Bant could have turned a single eye on him and had the other one settled on Quinlan. It said something that he received the full power of her gaze. “It’s not!”

“I’m bleeding!” Quinlan continued, now adding a loud struggling gasp. It drew looks around the commissary that lost interest identifying Vos. This was apparently unacceptable for the Kiffar, so he dissolved into wails that may as well been sung.

With a gesture at the mess of performing arts that was Quinlan, Obi-Wan said, “at least he is charming about it.”

Quinlan had become friends with Bant, no doubt drawn in by her gentle nature and usually calm acceptance. Bant had become friends with Quinlan through the aforementioned calm acceptance. Somehow that meant Obi-Wan was also friends with Quinlan.

How did this happen? When was his fate sealed? Was he always meant to be seated here, now, with a creature trying to die of a broken heart as boisterously as possible? Whatever the case, Obi-Wan knew himself and that _madman_ well enough to confidently and comfortably admit that anyone, but especially him, was a bore next to Quinlan Vos.

The Kiffar leaned over the table with a lustful smile that, much to the human boy’s horror, could easily be genuine. “Obbie- _Wann,_ I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

Senior Padawan Kenobi’s commlink vibrated and the apprentice answered desperately. His master’s voice informed him they had been summoned before the council _effective immediately_ , and the transmission cut out before the teen could so much as speak a sarcastic _“Yes, Master.”_

Bant shook her head. “What has Master Jinn done _now_?”

“I hope it was _pleasurable_.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I doubt The Council would be summoning both of us if that was the case.”

It wasn’t the case. They were being assigned what was sure to be a long and dangerous escort mission, where the fate of a system and perhaps galactic peace depended on the survival of a single person. Obi-Wan, bit of a history buff that he was, had to release some nerves into the Force.

Mandalore could be nothing short of life-changing.

Entering the system was a hectic affair, avoiding hostile ships from many, many, directions, his heart at his throat. Qui-Gon, it seemed, was determined to make him fly more, now that he knew the ridiculous risk it represented. He would resent it- if he didn’t understand he can be nothing less than proficient. Respite comes, only barely, once they cross the blockade around Sundari- but it’s already flying apart. The grey planet that greets them as they land, accompanied by burning ships from the sky, speaks of a sustained desolation and unforgiving violence. Whoever this Duchess is, he thinks, must truly inspire loyalty. Experienced, probably, to anticipate when her defenses won’t be able to hold on any longer. Wise, to understand and abide by the expert knowledge of her advisors. Strong, to hold on beyond the execution of her family.

Soldiers with T for visors, the traditional Mandalorian armor and helmet, usher them briskly into a palace- of which there is very little left. The hall they enter is slightly underground, if he has tracked the passages correctly, but enormous windows instill still the sense of grandeur. And there, at the throne that can hardly be the original, the Duchess was seated.

He cannot explain his lack of decorum. He won’t be able to explain why he didn’t bow immediately alongside his master. But there, on the throne, a girl of high cheekbones and piercing eyes, brilliant blue, looks down on him. It is a gaze that suggests he is an ant. Her pale skin seems almost iridescent under the light of the plain Sundari sky, and her hair flickered with each movement of her head, something between star-white and golden. And yet, her goddess-like appearance cannot hide, not in the Force, the emanating grief and pain and anger and _fear_. A deeply feeling protector and victim.

He blinks. It is a bucket of ice-cold water on him. 

_This_ is The Duchess? A creature severely unbalanced by deep torrents of emotions? The “Woman”, a teenager no older than him, that will procure a pacifistic Mandalore, bring to power the New Mandalorians, and so assure galactic peace?

Dear Force, can this possibly be your mandate?

Reprimand blares in the Force beside him and he is bowing so deeply he fears he will tip forward. Urgently kicks his anxiety into the abyss.

“Your arrival is as appreciated as it can be, Master Jedi.” This she begins with, her voice bewitchingly feminine and alluringly dominant. The voice of a self-assured ruler. These are not the terms in which he thinks of, but rather the words he avoids considering. What he does focus on, instead, is what a farce it is. She is unsettled, begrudgingly relieved at their arrival, indignant, perhaps. Her emotions boil with what must be her zipping thoughts. “The need for your presence was not unanimously agreed upon.” He glances up just in time to catch the heated look she sends her advisors.

There is not much time for his master to convince their charge of her need of them- the point is made quite clear with a thunderous sound that shakes the ground under their feet. He doesn’t remember how or when they got on the ship- he will forever know that this was the first time he touched her. He held onto her arm as they tried to outrun warriors in jetpacks, deflecting with his lightsaber as Qui-Gon blocked the way of their attackers. Soon enough it was just the three of them- deep in space with a severely damaged ship, the duchess ordering they land with her nearest allies. What they could deliver was a controlled crash in a nearby moon, hidden from their enemies by tall trees.

That was rather how it was- for a long time. The three of them doing subpar- but managing. She asked him his name, that first night, the two settling into a dip of the earth hidden by thick bushes, her voice quiet, her eyes clear, all through her constant fear.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He didn’t understand how she could function through the emotion, like this. Cerasi… her emotions had always felt dampened. She was a leader made in terrible circumstances that could only scratch at the surfaces of her soul. This Duchess had doors thrown open into her heart. 

“Are you a… Jedi Knight?”

“Uhno, Duchess. I am a padawan- an apprentice, as it were.”

“Oh…” Her frown expressed as much doubt as he felt about her position. “Padawan is your title, then?” He can’t quite see her eyes in the darkness. The shape of her face is still-

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “That is my title.”

“Well, Padawan Kenobi.” She drew up tall. “I thank you for my evacuation.”

“It is my duty, Duchess. You needn’t worry about giving thanks.”

“Ah, of course. Good night.”

She sat with much dignity on the leaves, her new bed, and then laid down with some difficulty. Still, she didn’t make a sound.

He would not sleep that night until Qui-Gon returned from scouting. Correcting her would probably be impolite, though. He felt like scratching his chin at the uncertainty. “Sleep well, Duchess.”

If his master didn’t give him a stern talking to that night, it was for fear of disturbing the duchess. It was not necessary, in any case, as Obi-Wan was aware of his transgressions. He berates himself thoroughly.

This becomes quite a pattern. He is the Duchess’s shadow, and Master Qui-Gon is the planner, scouting out into the wilderness, identifying search groups, eventually finding objectives. They move during the day towards a new hiding place, through a planned path, foraging what they can. Every night, he finds himself in conversation with the Duchess. Stilted and awkward at first, at some point he begins calling her Satine. She says _Obi-Wan_ first, however, and it strikes a place within him that is wholly unfamiliar.

It makes him meditate. Satine is curious about it, and he finds himself explaining the Force. Next thing he knows he is asking about her culture, digging for the things he couldn’t quite get off the reports, and she answers didactically. Better than some of his temple teachers.

He can’t say it doesn’t encourage him to bait her, to debate, and if he is pleased with how she meets his challenges head-on, he daren’t think it to himself.

“So, the weapon represents peacekeeping because you utilize the Force to make it, arguably a much more lethal weapon.”

“The _lightsaber_ is a symbol of _protected peace_ because it is much more than a weapon. The crystal chooses its Jedi, and it becomes a reflection of the Jedi’s soul. Of tranquility and calm. A lightsaber is a Jedi’s life.”

“Yes, I noted you Jetti are quite calm about waving your _life_ around.”

“For your information, wise Duchess, we never just wave it. A Jedi does not draw his saber unless he is ready to use it.”

“Peaceful!”

“When left with no choice _\- yes_. Bringing peace where there would be none.”

“Ah yes, my life is so much more peaceful now that you are here, I suppose.”

They hop planets in stolen Death Watch ships. She makes observations that save everyone’s lives. She is more a civilian than anyone he has ever spent so much time with, and still, her focus is unwavering. When she looks him in the eyes he can’t quite look away.

Master Qui-Gon sets a heavy hand on his shoulder, one night, drags him out of their cave as Satine continues in deep sleep. He says, “is there something you should tell me?”

He senses this is no request for a report, so he answers, “…no?”

His master gives a wry smile. “I was young once, Obi-Wan.”

“…I know.”

“I’ve seen how you talk with the Duchess.”

Obi-Wan did not appreciate what was being suggested. In fact, he didn’t want to think about it, at all. “Have I acted improperly, master?”

Qui-Gon gave him a hard look. “Not yet, not that I have seen much of you.”

Their conversations weren’t anything that should have worried Qui-Gon. It was jumping into a nest of venom-mites, to get Satine _out, quickly_. It was being sluggish from the toxins and slipping down a hill with Satine’s warm body in his arms, only for the drunken alarm that came when she slipped from his fingers. It was jumping in front of Satine after being hit with a Force suppressing dart, the hollowness of the universe maddening, and the hot laser that made skin sizzle as it struck his shoulder. It was the metal bolt that his saber couldn’t deflect and dug into his thig. It was being sleepy from blood loss, his head on Satine’s lap, listening to her soft lullaby of Vode-An, floating away from danger in the little canoe she found. It was murmuring, his reason somewhere long forgotten, “ _this isn’t a bad way to die_.” It was huddling in the snow, freezing right to the bones until they held each other. It was armored hands grabbing his head and smashing it against a rock. It was waking up to so much pain, a primal horror at the things he could feel dug into his skin, hearing the threat that he could be kept alive a long time, and thinking, _I’m not giving you Satine_. It was the delirium that took him. It was watching Satine lean over him, saying, “ _Parjir,_ _Obi-Wan, we got you_. _Udesii, now, mesh'la jetti_.” It was sitting by her side and having the insistent if muffled voices of destiny stop altogether.

Obi-Wan Kenobi could have handled the way his heart thundered for Satine Kryze, if not for these.

The first time Obi-Wan kisses Satine Kryze, it is like he is playing a weird game of forwards and backwards. _She_ kisses him, takes his life into her hands and crushes it against her lips, resolute even as her nerves also flutter. All he really did was look desiring and pleading and yearning, probably. The second time Obi-Wan kisses her, it is soon after, he is chasing with his whole soul and his neck stretches, and she answers his hunger all the same. The third time Obi-Wan Kenobi kisses Satine Kryze, his heart is so full he dares move his hands, cup her face, bestow the kiss upon her lips. The fourth time Obi-Wan kisses Satine Kryze, it is both leaning away just a second and leaning back in. The fifth time Obi-Wan kisses Satine, it is a Mandalorian kiss, foreheads and noses touching, and they are just breathing.

In truth, the only way the universe could have stopped Obi-Wan Kenobi from falling in love with Satine Kryze of Kalevala, was by never having them meet.

When the Clan Heads reunite for her, her voice carries with all the power he knows she has, and she sways battle-hard men and women beautifully. These are the fruits of her survival, and he can’t believe he even doubted them.

The ship is prepped, Qui-Gon stands in the ramp behind him, dignitaries watch from afar, and for a moment it is just the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes. Satine’s dress is a deep blue, white and orange threaded through, and she holds his life in her hands. He is just waiting for her to keep it, but she hands it back. Satine Kryze keeps a strong hold on his heart even as she leaves his life loose, a bird left at an open window where the only option is the deep blue sky.

Mandalore was life-changing but, as Obi-Wan wouldn’t be able to help musing, in the most private sites of his soul, it was not life-changing enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! So comment if you got any thoughts and I would be supremely grateful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! I hope this helps pass the time at home, and that everyone is safe and healthy.

  * Author's Note: Recently, I wrote a blog [article about Obi-Wan Kenobi](https://videogamecontrollers.siterubix.com/obi-wan-kenobi-the-unsung-hero/), which I think you guys would be interested in. If not, that's more than ok, but I would be quite happy if you took a look.



* * *

“Love is not a side effect of luck. Love is a posture.”  
― Jackie Viramontez

* * *

Obi-Wan dreams and they are strange dreams, real-like. They feature the silence of the night, the darkness of his room, and his complete confoundment. The Force whispers from under his bed and behind his ears- apologies, so many apologies. What has the Force to apologize for? It wakes him up, hours before he’s supposed to, to stare at the same dark grey wall from his dreams. Has he slept at all? At night, he spends only waking up.

Maybe the Force wants him to repent.

So Obi-Wan apologizes, during waking hours and meal times and in still meditation. He apologizes in the bath and dressing and between his talks with Qui-Gon. He apologizes while switching the datapads of his studies. He apologizes during his katas until he can’t under the strain of his muscles. He apologizes for not being devout enough. He apologizes for his heartbreak.

Heartbreak is quiet and he does not like it, but he thinks holo-dramas are as exaggerated as everyone suspects.

Satine is next to him on the commissary, her eyes twinkling and her voice indignant over his bland Temple food. He watches the curve of her eyes more than he tastes each bite. Qui-Gon will give him a look of disappointment, and Obi-Wan is never sure what for, apart from himself, but he knows to take Satine’s hand. To take Satine’s hand and run, tripping over vegetation, the air humid or cold or dry or blistering, her elegant and sweaty fingers held by his, her Force presence emanating fear, and trust, and so much determination. His heart pausing between her footsteps and beating with her every breath. This image allows him to smile at his master, and sometimes this seems to be what Qui-Gon Jinn wants.

Heartbreak is no burning knife parting the flesh of his chest. He does not need to scream or wail. Heartbreak is knowing Satine is not with him, that she’ll never be with him, and that he’ll never be with her. Heartbreak in blinking to find himself at an empty table. Heartbreak is a pair of empty fists. Heartbreak is the simplicity of Temple's life against the supreme highs of Mandalore, wherein the lows he could meet her gaze. Heartbreak is standing alone with the certainty, the conviction, that this is the rest of his life.

Satine, raising her hand with all the poise of her upbringing, that moment stretched into eternity but full of understanding, holding his gaze as she says, “stay.” Holding his hand and dragging him towards the light, for all that he’s willing. These dreams are almost as common as the ones in which the Force demands an apology.

Heartbreak is quiet, and Obi-Wan knows if he keeps still, if he does not move, if he does not think, he’ll survive it. He’ll survive, and be the best Jedi he can, because the Force _wills_.

He does survive.

But he closes his eye and the Force keeps whispering from hidden places.

* * *

One day Obi-Wan wakes up, and the Force seems to make sense of what it says. He blinks wet eyes and the jitters come to the tip of his toes. He is very much awake. He gives the ceiling a nod.

He dresses into his Jedi tunics, methodically, the texture soft and rough between his fingers. He breathes in the familiarity, filling his lungs until they hurt.

He is ready for the rest of his life.

* * *

Naboo pretends to be a normal mission. Corporate evils attempting to carve out benefit on pockets of impunity, not unlike politicians. Several factions within the same system. Royalty or Governance members in need of assistance. Offers of money for those greedy, and threats against the populace for those who care. Some defense against him and Qui-Gon, misguided in its capability of killing them, nonetheless quite bothersome.

Bad and usual.

He and his master have been getting good at this, and Obi-Wan is… proud of this. Proud of this partnership, and of what they can do with it.

They have their jokes, _he_ has his jokes, and they got patterns, and sometimes he feels he understands his master a little better. The trinity is Pathetic Lifeforms, the Force, and A-slight-distaste-for-all-authority.

Yet the Force is screaming at him. Qui-Gon has often told him to ignore these strange forebodings, and Obi-Wan does his best to obey. He releases all resulting anxiety into the Force, practiced and easy and concluded within a few breaths, but the Force insists. It began with an ice-cold tickle down his neck that turned acid on his abdomen, methodically carving out from his organs and bones a hollow in which dread sloshes. He dumps out the alien fear and it swirls back in, and Obi-Wan soon feels like an archaic sailor fighting the ocean against a compromised boat.

Obi-Wan bites down on his inner lip and focuses.

“Master, what about this planet?”

Tatooine, Desert, under Hutt Control, vast and non-descript. He studied this side of the galaxy for the mission.

Obi-Wan ends up staying behind for the Queen’s protection, and quite frankly, he cannot resent the objective with what he observed out the window. Truly arid, terribly hot, and someone had to keep an eye on the priority passenger. His master is doing him a favor.

Those are some quiet hours of waiting and biting down dread, however.

One of the handmaidens seems to disproportionately like him. Obi-Wan does his best to politely avoid her.

He does what revisions he can to the systems, but he attempts to do visible patrol on the Queen too. For all that he has attuned himself to her presence, non-Force sensitives have few ways but the visual to know they are looked after, and this Queen feels fragile. In a way very much unlike Satine, this girl is unmoored. It is as though she does not know what to do with herself, and Obi-Wan cannot help wondering if someone organized the election for her. The pattern of her emotions does not reflect the decisiveness of a Queen, but rather deeply ingrained prudence. If her governance has truly been as good as advertised up until this point, it must be for her deep consideration of situations and attentiveness to her advisors.

Obi-Wan is not sure she understands what to do about potential war, though she has done well so far.

Then they get a transmission, and _this, this must be it_. “It is a trick, send no reply!”

After a strange call in which his master implies everything is fine, though Obi-Wan can practically smell the shenanigans, he sits down to meditate the night away.

He will not sleep with the Force hissing danger like a snake.

* * *

Briefly, as Obi-Wan directs the pilot on how to evacuate his master, he thinks he understands. The foreboding is reaching its end, he can feel it, like a rapid river heading into the waterfall. He falls to his knees next to Qui-Gon, and it happens.

“Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

The boy is cheery, his hair is shiny, his feel in the Force almost blinding, and Obi-Wan can only guess urgency and the aura of that Dark creature kept him distracted. It takes moments for him to listen to the Force, once again.

It is the silence after an explosion.

In the middle of a battlefield in which the bullets keep coming.

* * *

“They all feel the boy is dangerous, why can’t you?”

“I will do what I must, Obi-Wan.”

Yes, that’s a problem.

* * *

“I will take Anakin as my padawan learner.”

Obi-Wan does not know what face he is making nor what he is projecting, for he does not quite understand what he is feeling. He… tries to catch Qui-Gon’s gaze, but Qui-Gon is not looking his way. Qui-Gon is not even projecting anything through the bond, and Obi-Wan doesn’t- does not know-

“Obi-Wan’s ready.”

“I’m ready to face my trials,” he says, hurriedly, stepping forward.

It doesn’t help. _He_ doesn't help.

Obi-Wan had known for some time that he wasn’t what Qui-Gon wanted, but how much worse had he made it?

* * *

Naboo is beautiful. Easily one of the best places to live. The air is brisk and cool and serene, and not even the impending battle can stop the birds from singing. He knows these forests must call Qui-Gon’s name, but these lands, this ground, has a sense of historical serenity. Today will mar record years of peace. He has walked places where the Force mourns the death and where the air chokes with ash. He has walked lands of rubble rather than grass. He lives on a planet where poverty hides just under the surface and the horizon is dominated by greys and the stars have forgotten to shine.

The cold touch of the Force still mouths his skin.

“I’m sorry for my behavior, Master. It’s not my place to disagree with you about the boy.” Obi-Wan says, and for the next part a twinge of- _resentment_ … nearly stops him. He banishes it quickly, decisively, shame twirling in his gut. “And I am grateful you think I’m ready to take the trials.” And he _was_ grateful. Qui-Gon would not have said it if there was not some trust in his ability, and it wouldn’t do for him to be unappreciative.

A small part of himself never believed in Qui-Gon’s answer.

* * *

The creature’s eyes bore into his soul like a promise. The darkness rose over the room and corrupted his perception, blocking out the Light in the Force, its soft caress departing him. The dread froze over the pool of his being, and it bit into his flesh. As he set his feet and drew his blade of light, Obi-Wan breathed the movements like a kata, centered on his master’s presence, let the cool confidence of his master fill him.

He could fight like this.

Darksiders weren’t common, but Obi-Wan had sparred on two-one matches. It was much easier to hold off two opponents when they came from one direction. Necessity asking, he was firmly attuned to his master, and communicating his intention through the bond just before he flipped over the Sith was easy. His master kept the zabrak distracted with swift swings. As soon as he lands, he strikes- but the Darksider turns quickly and blocks him. Except he hadn’t turned.

The red and black apparition barely needed to glance back and forth, standing sideways between his two opponents, and wielding the dual lightsaber expertly. The thing pushed against Qui-Gon decisively, and the athleticism of both the master and the apprentice’s forms served little to stand one’s ground. Still, the pace was hectic, the chase was on. They just needed one moment for the swift action of Ataru.

Then the creature flipped, once, twice, thrice, into another room, a quick spiral that left them as they began. The creature was freed from between them and extended a hand in triumph. Obi-Wan’s senses held a weariness on muscles not his own, his hands tightened on the lightsaber, and he charged forward. The red blade was low, and Obi-Wan brought his own down in an overhead slash. Impact on his jaw felt to the crown of his head, and Obi-Wan fell, rolled, stood. Hissed out between his teeth, an action charged to the Force. He had been kicked.

But if anything, he felt the focus in his master’s mind sharpen. Behind the alien, a generator room with thin walkways. Energy rays bathed the air in heat.

A flip in that room would cost the darksider his _life_.

A feint, a swing, and dark boots under dark robes willingly set foot on one of the walkways. Pushed little ways in by a Jedi pair, the came upon a round section that channeled light, and they had surrounded him again.

He should have learned.

It was a heel kick. Obi-Wan was blocking a lightsaber on one side when a shadow came over his vision on the other. The pain flashed like his awareness- the next moment he was falling. The hard landing alerted him just in time to hold on to the edge, and it was hanging there that he gathered his bearings.

He should have climbed faster.

The red closed off inches from his nose.

He should have-

* * *

Few things have ever been straightforward in Obi-Wan’s Kenobi’s life- few things will be. Some truths, time cannot change.

When a simple concept peeks, Obi-Wan catches it, holds it between white-knuckled fingers. He knows how to enjoy riches, unlike the wealthiest beings in this universe- he’s been taught to swear off possessions. The gift of knowledge is one he does not take lightly, so he memorizes the texture, the feel, and the corners of these simple concepts.

 _What makes you simple?_ His hungry eyes ask. Then he turns it over and over with a greedy brilliant mind until the concept is not simple anymore. It is then easier to understand, more familiar when you know it toes to top, into each wrinkle. He folds it neatly, a white plain paper square, and holds it over his heart. This is how Obi-Wan Kenobi builds convictions.

Learned like that, they are unmovable. The sharpest Tatooine sandstorm, the fury of Gods whispered by men of shackled hands but free spirits, cannot touch him in vengeful search. Obi-Wan holds justice just as dearly. The kryat dragons will feel his determination and greet him. He'll embrace them as lost family. The fires of [Leia](https://amatakka.fandom.com/wiki/Ekkreth)’s condemnation are a familiar friend that won’t harm him.

But Ben Kenobi needn’t survive the gentle violence of the desert yet.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is a young man being presented trials of the heart, and this is the closest he’ll ever be to giving up.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi belongs to the Light.

Many Fall in misunderstanding the Light. The greatest scholars of the Light confuse it with the concept of serenity and consider the deep emotions of life it's nemesis. The Lightest creatures seem to be dispassionate. Anger is like a signature of the Dark. Causes and effects meshing to confound the meaning of the pieces.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi will be one of the most emotional Jedi of his time.

Obi-Wan took simple constant concepts, as he is wont to do. He felt the words of his childhood, and he held them to his forehead. In this, he understood his ignorance and accepted.

Acceptance.

A choice of each second. Give or take.

In acceptance, you needn’t more. You are allowed to give.

Give or take.

Obi-Wan accepts guilt like a flower under the rain. A million people in his life would receive his blame, if were he someone else. From them, he’ll never demand the recognition of their failure.

The fires of Leia’s condemnation are a friend that won’t harm him.

Shock, pain- air leaves him as anger fills his lungs. The red burns out of his master’s stomach- and Qui-Gon slumps over.

The memories, cherished, remembered, eternal, louder than any hurt and any disappointment. The memory of the man’s hands braiding his hair. That one afternoon he fell asleep on the warm folds of his master’s tunic. Qui-Gon’s long hair hanging before his eyes as the older man looked him over, when he was injured and barely conscious enough to note it. The first time he ever got a hit in, surprising himself and his mentor, the training mat slippery, his tunics wet with sweat, and the weight on his shoulder. “Well done, Obi-Wan.”

Some actions are the same, even if the intentions are different.

Take his revenge, for the perverse satisfaction of harm, savor death in the Force.

Give everything he has, for ancient duty, for this mission, for his master’s life.

Obi-Wan Kenobi belongs to the Light.

He is designed to _give_.

That is why.

* * *

“Obi-Wan, promise, promise me you’ll train the boy.”

“ _Yes, Master_.”

The tip of Qui-Gon’s fingers touch his padawan’s cheek, and it is, perhaps, the softest touch he has given the boy. Perhaps now he recognizes that he feared ghosts. Maybe he knows the child could not have answered differently. But this is goodbye, his fingers are cold, and his son is warm.

* * *

"Real love isn't just a euphoric, spontaneous feeling—it's a deliberate choice."

― Seth Adam Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Comments feed my soul. Discussion and the exchange of ideas or feelings: That is perhaps I most love of the written form. I will be very grateful for anything you have to say.
> 
> BTW! I have a website/blog now. If you want to throw some love my way, please check it out and maybe subscribe to it. Link to it is in my profile page here. Thanks!


End file.
